The truth of the matter is, I had no intention of surviving my time in France. I knew there was work to be done, important work, and that appealed to me immensely. But I also found myself not caring whether or not I came back from this mission alive.
Being sent to France to work with their underground resistance fighters seemed like a death sentence at the time. In the months prior to this meeting, in March of 1944, I had lost most of my will to live. I still wanted to be useful to the war effort, of course, because I knew I could be very useful if I were given the opportunity. But the fact of the matter is that men of my ilk are not exactly welcome in most facets of society, and that included the military.
In February, the man with whom I had been involved for several years ended our relationship to be with a woman. As if that wasn't insulting enough, he claimed that I had somehow tricked him (although how, exactly, was a matter on which he had never been quite clear) and threatened to expose my "tendencies" as he called them, to my higher-ups. I never brought up to him how enthusiastic he'd been during the whole endeavour; how much he'd seemed to enjoy having his lips wrapped around my cock, or the ecstatic noises he made when he fucked me, but nonetheless he'd left me heartbroken and disillusioned. I knew our relationship was not exactly conventional, but I had been quite happy with him, and I had thought he'd felt the same.
His betrayal had produced two reactions in me: One: I knew I needed to get away from him as quickly as possible, and Two: I rather foolishly felt that this was the end for me. I'd loved him, and had thought he loved me, and being cast aside by him had ruined me in many ways.
I told the Major who interviewed me none of this, of course. I presented myself as a dedicated young man, who wanted nothing more than to take a more direct hand in fighting the Nazis. This was definitely true at one point in my life, so I didn't find it too difficult to lie. If I could die a useful death, then I would die happy, finally through with wallowing in my pit of misery.
He seemed impressed enough with me. We spoke in both English and French, and he complimented my abilities in the latter. It seemed he'd had to turn down several potential candidates due to their poor French skills, but I knew this wouldn't be an issue for me. I was completely fluent, and knew I had nearly no accent when I spoke.
"I think we'll take you on," the Major said to me, "If, of course, you'd like the position?"
"Oh yes, sir," I said, "I should like that very much."
He smiled and handed me the papers to sign.
"There is sort of a probationary period, of course," he said, "If we become unhappy with your work, we can get rid of you, or assign you to another job."
"I assure you, sir, there will be no need for that," I said, standing and gathering my things, "You will be very satisfied with my work."
I left his office feeling good about myself once more.
The following day I found myself in the training office. The man I met in there, a strapping young Frenchman by the name of Henri, showed me around the training facilities, introducing me to some of the men with whom I would be training. It was a motley crew, British, French, Americans, Australians, and the like, all of mixed ages and backgrounds. Some of them were new, like myself, but others had come back from France for more training. Those men had a tired, dead look in their eyes, but most seemed eager to finish their training and get back to France. That seemed to be the routine: Train, go on an assignment, come back, and train some more. Ad nauseum.
I quickly surmised that I had little in common with most of these men. We had similar goals, of course, but there was something about them that just never quite clicked with me, and vice versa. I was quite used to this, however, as that was how I had always gotten on with most people. I was always polite, and friendly to a certain point, but I built heavy fortifications around myself, and anyone who wanted to create a rapport with me would have to find a way to either climb over or tunnel under those walls. Few people had the necessary equipment for such endeavours.
Henri was one of the few people in the training school with whom I got on well, and he was something of a demolitions expert. We would often discuss our views on the matter as he trained me.
"Bombing from the air is too inefficient," he said, "Hundreds of bombs get dropped onto German cities, for what? You blow up some buildings, kill some civilians. It does not accomplish so much, and they use hundreds of tons of explosives. It's a waste. Meanwhile a good saboteur could use the same amount of explosives to destroy a few key buildings or roads, and bring the Boche to its knees."
I agreed with him, of course, and not just because he was the man training me. This was exactly the sort of work I wanted to do in France. It was precise and devastating. I paid better attention to what he taught me than any of my other instructors, hoping that this would be the type of mission they'd send me on. Intel was all well and good, but I wanted to get my hands dirty as well.
One of the more interesting subjects we studied was the operation of tanks. We were taught how to drive all types, from American to German, and I got a great thrill from firing missiles from the turret. I met a young man during my tank training named Craig, who simultaneously annoyed and intrigued me with his dull tone and uninterested manner. Everything seemed to bore him, and he'd once said to me that he didn't enjoy fun, or adventures of any kind. His expression never changed, and firing machine guns and driving around 2,000 tonne equipment seemed as exciting to him as discussing the weather. I did not know then how instrumental he would be to my time in France, and later I was glad I'd never picked a fight with him, as much as I'd wanted to, just to see if I could get a rise out of him.
A few weeks into my training, I was called into a different Major's office. Upon entering the room I noticed one of my fellow trainees in one of the seats across from the desk. He was a young Irishman with messy blonde hair, who I had seen around often enough but had never spoken more than a few words to, due to his bad reputation. He was a notorious flirt, and though no one had ever seen him actively pursue another man, he behaved in a most lascivious manner toward damn near anyone with a pulse, no matter what their gender. Being the subject of lewd comments was high on the list of things I did not appreciate, and furthermore I was afraid that those sorts of comments coming from a man might somehow expose my unorthodox sexual proclivities. I avoided the man like the plague, and yet seemed to run into him in the most inopportune moments.
"Have a seat, Frost," the Major said, addressing me by my surname.
I thanked him, and sat next to the other young man, avoiding eye contact with him as best I could.
"Have you met McCormick?" the Major asked.
-Yaahoooo-
"No, sir, not properly at least," I replied, shifting my eyes to the blonde beside me. He waggled his eyebrows at me, and I looked away, quickly.
"Well," continued the Major, "you'll need to get to know him pretty quickly, I'm afraid. The two of you will be shipping out together in only a few more weeks. I've brought you here to discuss your cover stories."
"I'm sorry, sir," I said, "but you said... together?"
"Oh, yes. No one has told you? You and McCormick are to be partners."
"Partners?!" I asked, surprised, "No one said anything to me about having a partner."
"Yes, Frost, partners. Not all of our men have one, but I think you would both benefit from it. The reports I've had on the two of you all say that you're more of a thinker, a planner. McCormick is more of a doer, and follows orders well. You'll balance each other out quite well, I think."
"Yes, sir," I said, not even remotely happy about this development.
"Now," continued the Major, "as for your cover stories, well I've already been filling in McCormick about his, but it relates to yours as well. I've thought of a good one for you, so pay attention."
"Yes, sir," I said again, and glanced over at McCormick once more. He was eyeing me as a hungry cat would eye a mouse. I didn't like it, one bit.
"Right. Here it is: Your father was a British soldier during the Great War. He was stationed in France where he met your mother, and he snatched her away back to England where he fathered you. When you were, say 12 or so, your mother found out that your father had a bastard son with an Irishwoman only a year after your birth. He attempted to bring his other son into your life, but your mother would have none of it, and moved back to France, taking you with her. She cut off all ties with your father, but you secretly kept in touch with your half brother, for whatever reason. You can make one up. Your mother passed away right around the time the economy went south, and your father's business went under shortly thereafter, and so your half-brother, with whom you became friends over the years, decided to join you in France where you were doing quite well for yourself."
He punctuated the end of his story with a smile, but I looked back at him with a sense of unease.
"You don't think it would seem suspicious of me to stay in France when things started to heat up with the Jerries? After all, many Frenchmen fled to Britain, even those without citizenship, so a British citizen staying in France might seem rather odd."
"Ah, well, that's the brilliant part, you see!" he said, smiling even harder, "You both have that lovely blonde hair, blue eyed look the Huns are so fond of. No, you will be playing the part of a Nazi sympathizer."
I sat back, aghast. He was right, it was a good cover, and I knew I could play the part if I must, but having to pretend to support these nefarious bastards was not something I was keen on doing. I'd had first-hand experience with the Jerries in Africa, and if that personal experience wasn't enough, I hated them for what the Luftwaffe had done to London, razing so much of my beloved city with their careless bombings. And there were terrible rumors about what they were doing with their so-called enemies of the state; Jews, homosexuals, communists, and the like. Pretending to support them seemed reprehensible to me.
"What do you think of this?" I asked McCormick, turning to face him.
"Oh, never mind all that," interrupted the Major, "It suits him fine. His French isn't that great, but if he's pretending to be your Irish half-brother then that doesn't matter so much. And you do look similar enough to pass for half-siblings, at the very least."
McCormick just shrugged, and as I couldn't think of a convincing argument against this cover story we were soon ushered out of the office, after being handed official-looking but entirely fake documents, backing up these false identities. They included our real first names, but instead of Frost and McCormick, our surnames had been written as Wright and Williamson, respectively. This was to prevent any Hun who might be just a little too interested in our identities to trace us too quickly. A background check on Gregory Frost would uncover a British officer, but a background check on Gregory Wright would only turn up false information about a British ex-pat who was an ardent fan of Adolph Hitler.
McCormick ended up following me to lunch and sat next to me, though I didn't speak to him during the entire meal, which didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. After he was finished eating, he lit up a cigarette, sighing with satisfaction.
"I do have one question," I said to him. He merely looked at me out of the corner of his eye, blowing smoke in rings toward the ceiling.
"Does it bother you that you're a bastard in this cover story?" I asked.
"Nah," he said, turning to grin at me, "I am one, anyway."
"You are?"
"Oh yeah. Sort of, anyway. My parents didn't marry 'till after I was born, see. Not really sure why then, though, since they had another kid before me," he said, shrugging, "I've been called worse things than 'bastard', though."
"Oh," I said, not knowing what else was acceptable in this situation. My parents were very wealthy, and in the circles in which they moved, bastards weren't even polite to speak of, much less speak to.
"But you and me aren't so different, I think," he said, turning to face me, straddling the bench we sat upon.
"I beg your pardon?" I said, offended.
"You're queer, aren't you? Most men would rather be a bastard than a poof," he said, grinning at me in a knowing way.
"How dare you! I have no idea what you're talking about," I said, vehemently, though I could feel my face growing red. Damn my fair skin.
"Yeah, so you say. You can't hide it from me, though."
I didn't respond to this, just glared at him as he continued to smile cheekily at me.
"You're so uptight. I wasn't actually sure, but I can tell just from your reaction that I'm right. You should work on that," he said, as he stood to leave, stamping his cigarette out on his lunch tray.
I grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled him back down against the bench. He stared at me, surprised.
"Listen," I said, "I don't know what you think you know, but I'll not have some Irish bastard going around spreading rumours about me."
He rolled his eyes, clearly not offended by what I had said.
"I don't care, of course," he said, patting me on the cheek. I flinched away. "I'm not gonna tell anyone. And I don't think anyone else has it figured out, either. So relax."
I snorted at this; being found out was my only real anxiety. I could never relax when it came to my sexuality. Was it that obvious, though? Was I not fooling anyone?
"What gave it away?" I asked, suddenly.
He looked a little taken aback that I was no longer denying it, but I saw no point in hiding it at this point.
"It was the way you avoided me, mostly. And how uncomfortable you'd get when I made a sleazy joke toward other blokes. Men who are that uncomfortable with things like that are usually hiding something."
"I see," I said, staring at the table. I was rather embarrassed by the whole situation. I'd avoided McCormick in an attempt to hide my secret, and had wound up revealing it to him just the same.
"And you're a little too... prim," he said.
"I am no such thing!" I snapped, but Kenny only smiled harder.
"Anyway," he said, standing once more, "I've got to be going. I have a class in a bit. And don't worry," he said, leaning in close to my ear, "your secret's safe with me. After all, I've fucked a few lads in my day."
I looked up at him in shock, but he was already retreating. He winked at me over his shoulder, and left the room.
I sat there, stunned for a minute, before realizing I also had a class to get to. Along the way I mulled over our exchange in my head. I was rather glad that we'd had that discussion, so long as he kept his promise and didn't expose me to everyone. Because what I'd really taken away from the exchange was that McCormick was much more astute than most people gave him credit for, and he would, indeed, be a good partner on my mission.
It was a few weeks later that we were once more pulled into the Major's office.
"You'll be leaving tomorrow night," he said, brusquely, "I need to give you some additional information."
I merely nodded at this, suddenly terrified out of my wits. I had expecting this for so long, but now that the moment was so near, I found myself not wanting to go, much to my surprise. Perhaps it was just the short notice that was making me nervous.
The Major handed us heaps of maps and diagrams, each detailing the region around the town to which we were being sent, as well as German troop positions and movements, roads, railways, the whole lot. Anything a good saboteur might want to know.
"You're being sent to Rouen in the north of France. It's a very dangerous area, but I think you boys are up to the task," he said, "You may have heard rumours of an invasion coming soon. I can't tell you exact details, but the rumours are correct, and we want you men to be between Paris and the coast, to help destroy railways and roads so the Jerries will be delayed. We'd also like you to train any Maquis you come in contact with in the region to do the same. The less troops and supplies the Germans have on the coast, the better off the invasion will be. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," I said, and McCormick spoke like an echo next to me.
"Good. Tonight and tomorrow I need you to memorize the things on these papers. You cannot take them with you, because they'll be a dead giveaway as to your purposes in France, so it's important that you learn everything on them. There's also the matter of code names," he said, "Frost, your code name will be Fleur. McCormick, you will be Desiré."
I sat there, aghast, but next to me McCormick threw his head back and laughed.
"Couldn't have picked a better one myself, Major," he said, "for either of us."
"Sir," I said, "Must we go by these names at all times?" I asked.
"Oh no, not at all," he answered, "Most of our men in France do go solely by their code names, but with your cover stories, you're kind of a special case. No, you should go by the false names provided on your forged identity papers. But your code names should be used to introduce yourselves initially, and for communications."
"Right, sir," I said.
"Now, you're going to be set up, at least initially, at a bar. The owner is one of the key organizers of the Resistance movement in that area. He goes by the name Taupe. I'll leave it to him to disclose whatever else he wants to tell you about himself, but he will meet you in a field outside of town after you are parachuted in. If he is not there, his men will be, so make sure you ask for him. He's a good man, though a little brusque, but he should take care of you and be able to set you up with anything you need."
"Yes, sir," I said.
After a brief conversation covering the logistics of our flight, McCormick and I were excused from the Major's office. He smiled at me as we walked down the hallway.
"Tomorrow's the big day, then!" he said, excitedly.
"So it would seem," I answered.
"Wanna go have a drink together? Sort of a farewell whatever?" he asked.
"No, thank you. We need to study these maps we were given."
"Aw, c'mon," he practically whined at me, "It might be our last night in England! Shit, it might be our last night, ever! I've heard a lot about planes going down over the Channel or over France, you know. We might not survive! And anyway, we can study those maps and things tomorrow, right?"
I eyed him warily. I wasn't the sort of man who typically enjoyed going to a pub, and drinking cheap, watery, wartime beer. However, he had a point. We might not even be alive in 24 hours. There might be no "next time". Additionally, if I had to pretend McCormick was my brother, even my bastard half-brother, I should probably at least make an attempt to socialize with him outside of training, and get to know him on a personal level. All I knew about him were things I had picked up during training, and in our few brief private interactions.
"Alright," I agreed, "But I don't want to be stuck in a pub all night if I'm not enjoying myself. So don't hassle me if I decide to leave early."
"Deal," he said, grinning.
We ended up at a pub called the Red Lion, which was perhaps the filthiest establishment in all of London. Kenny seemed to be a favorite among the patrons, and was greeted by nearly everyone in there as we wandered through, before finally settling on a wobbly pair of stools at the end of the bar.
"You seem quite popular," I said, and he just shrugged, ordering beers for the both of us from the busty barmaid, who winked and grinned at McCormick as she poured our drinks.
"What can I say?" he said, grinning back at her, "I'm a crowd pleaser."
It did not take me long to get drunk, even on the cheap beer. I have never been much of a drinker, preferring to stay in control of myself at all times. But McCormick kept ordering drinks for me, and after a few, I had lost the ability to argue with him.
"You really need to stop calling me McCormick," he said to me at one point, several beers in, "We're supposed to be brothers, you know. And that's not even my undercover name, anyway."
"Oh shit," I said to him, "You're right. What should I call you? I don't even know your first name!"
That was the point at which I realized how drunk I was, as the volume of my voice had grown much too loud for my taste, and my words were slurred rather badly.
"My name's Kenneth, but no one calls me that except bill collectors," he said, "You can call me Kenny," he smiled and patted me on the back.
I was drunk enough that I grabbed at his arm as he pulled it away, holding it against myself. He looked surprised at my forwardness.
"I've never had a brother," I said to him, "Or a sister, at that. I have no idea how people interact with their siblings. You'll have to teach me."
"Well, it depends on the sibling, I suppose," he said, extracting his arm from my grip, "I have a brother and a sister. My brother and I fight all the time, but my sister and I are pretty close. I take good care of her when I'm around.
You're kind of womanly, so maybe I should treat you like my sister," he said with a cheeky grin.
"I am not!" I shouted, nearly falling off my bar stool in my attempt to defend myself.
Kenny grabbed my arm to help me keep my balance, laughing at my indignation.
"I'm just fucking with you!" he said, "Relax!"
I said nothing to this, cursing both myself and Kenny for my advanced state of drunkenness. I knew my face must be turning red as he let go of my arm and leaned comfortably against the bar.
"You have got to be the most uptight person I've ever met," he said, still grinning at me.
I ignored this as well, turning back to my beer with a huff. I knew any argument I made against him would just make me seem worse, and by this point I was too drunk to make a coherent defense for myself, anyway.
"Well," he said with a shrug, "It doesn't matter anyway. No two familial relationships are the same, I figure, so as long as you don't treat me like I'm a stranger, I think we can pass for brothers just fine."
I nodded at this, and let him order me another beer.
I didn't really remember getting home. There had been some stumbling through the streets of London, of that I was sure, and I vaguely remembered leaning on Kenny for support, yet how I made it into my own bed was a bit of a mystery to me. When I awoke the next morning, the sun seemed excruciatingly bright, and the sparrows that were singing outside my window might have been the loudest things I had ever heard. The biggest mystery of all was why Kenny was asleep on my floor, wrapped in a blanket and devoid of nearly all his clothes. He began to stir as I slowly, carefully climbed out of my bed, hoping to find some painkillers, or perhaps a hand gun to deal with the pounding in my head.
"Oh, hey," he said groggily, as I attempted to step over him, catching my foot on the blanket he'd stolen from my bed and nearly falling on my face.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, sitting in an armchair next to him and reaching for a half-empty glass of water on the table nearby.
"I don't suppose you remember offering to let me bugger you, do you?"
"Dear God!" I shouted, "Did I?"
"Oh yeah," he said, smiling.
"And, er... did we?"
"I'm not into incest, Gregory," he said with a grin, rolling onto his side and stretching, "So no. But then you started crying about some guy named Gary? Who's that?"
"Oh, Christ," I moaned, burying my head in my hands, humiliated, "I am never getting that drunk again. I don't remember any of that."
"Who's Gary?" he asked again.
"He's my former lover, if you must know," I replied, with hands still covering my face in shame, "And he left me not too long ago. Apparently being queer was against his religion, although that never seemed to bother him in the two years we were together. You look a bit like him, I suppose; that's probably why I behaved in such a deplorable manner."
I looked at him as he rolled over toward his trousers, digging around in them until he extracted a cigarette. He didn't look angry in the slightest, which was a relief, but I wasn't about to tempt fate by asking him not to smoke in my room.
"I'm sorry," I said, impulsively.
"What for?" he mumbled around his cigarette.
"For... well, just about everything last night. I truly hope I didn't make you uncomfortable. How mortifying."
He laughed, and began to pull his clothes back on.
"Don't worry about it. It's not the first time someone tried having sex with me and ended up crying," he said, chuckling.
I didn't ask what he meant, because frankly I was afraid to find out. Either way, I was still preoccupied with feeling humiliated.
"Anyway," he said after pulling his shirt over his head, "I'll leave you to enjoy your hangover alone. Don't forget we have to meet the car at 7 tonight, to get to the air base."
"Yes, of course," I muttered, and didn't look up as he patted me on the shoulder, and left the room.